


Bones of You

by all_the_kings_ham



Series: Fugitive Motel [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Wincest - Freeform, fever writings, more plot than smooching, things I find hidden in my computer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-13
Updated: 2014-10-13
Packaged: 2018-02-21 02:14:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2450912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/all_the_kings_ham/pseuds/all_the_kings_ham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Time doesn't heal all wounds. Sometimes the only fix is to stand around yelling at each other until you say the wrong thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bones of You

**Author's Note:**

> Second part to Fugitive Motel. I guess you don't have to read it first, but I would recommend it. It's not long.  
> Go a head.  
> The original ending to this wasn't salvageable, so I did a mighty overhaul while doped up on cold medicine, which was obviously one of my better plans.  
> It's not quite three times longer than the first part and this has only served to established the fact that over the four years since I wrote the beginning I have become long winded and good at rambling.  
> It's good to be good at something.

 

 

Dean was hurting- nothing new there. Laying curled on his side on the motel room’s lumpy bed, one fist around the neck of a bottle of vodka, the other hand around his cell phone and neither of these things brought him any more comfort than pain.

 He had spent the afternoon tearing through a nest of enormous rat like creatures called Lavellan in Logan Utah and getting his ass beat half to hell in the process. He felt broken- and it was probably because he was. At least two cracked ribs, split lip, raw gashes over one shoulder- clean through his jacket and shirt, and his left foot couldn’t hold his weight.

Liquor stores in Utah closed early and the only thing Dean had going for himself right now was the fact that he had the peace of mind to buy some booze the previous afternoon. He had managed to plan ahead for once.

He sucked down the pained noise that rioted in his chest as he dragged the bottle up to his lips. Perhaps there was a second thing he had going for himself- no one was here to see and hear what a mess he was.

Dignity be damned.

Sewing his own shoulder back together wasn’t clean, it was nauseatingly painful and Dean’s breaths were ragged and moist. He didn’t let himself wish that his brother was here with him. He couldn’t do it anymore. It wouldn’t erase what he had let happen in Tulsa. Wishing wouldn’t get Sam and his capable hands back here to help him. Dean was on his own with only his misery and guilt keeping him going. That and a staggering stubborn streak.

Stubbornness like his could outlast the fall of nations.

The little white stitches were uneven but functional, they looked wrong against the redness of his skin, puckered and irritated. He staggered upright, limping awkwardly towards the little bathroom. A burning swig of vodka served as a distraction, working its way down his throat like gasoline while he tipped the bottle again, this time over his shoulder and the thirteen stitches he had made.

“Son of a _bitch_.” He hissed between gritted teeth. The edge of the sink held him up while he leaned, shaking against the cool porcelain. Time got a little lost, he couldn’t say how long he held onto the sink, pressing his forehead against the mirror, breathing shallow, trying to stop shaking. Adrenaline from the hunt had churned and mixed with the alcohol in his gut, burning and eating at him like battery acid. He thought he was going to be sick.

The guitar riff from ‘Rocked You Like a Hurricane’ came tiny and muffled from back on the bed. Dean’s cell phone demanding his attention in electronically distorted bars. He felt his lip curl up in a junkyard dog kind of snarl.

“ _What_?” He growled out as if the phone might fear his wrath and apologize to him.

It kept ringing, running through the short riff two and a half more times before suddenly cutting off. Maybe a minute later it beeped twice, letting the man in the other room know that someone left a message.

Over the past few months Dean had learned to hate that phone.

It never did him any favors.

He hobbled out of the bathroom, bottle of vodka loose in his hand, thumping softly against his leg with each awkward step. He needed to get his boots off, but he was honestly a little afraid of what his foot would look like. Sometime during the hunt that had rapidly gone south, he had found himself kicking wildly at a rat the size of a motorcycle- but he had missed and managed to slam his foot into a concrete pylon.

With the upmost care, he lowered himself to the edge of the room’s only bed, occupying himself and his bruised knuckles with untangling his laces and prying his dirty boots off, letting them fall to the floor. Socks followed, he used the holes that had been worn into the toes of each one as the obviously best place to grab- despite the fact that the big toe on his left foot looked almost black where it peeked out of the old sock. With a bit of that glorious stubbornness that he relied on to keep going most days, he made himself look at his foot. It was swollen, three of the five toes darkly bruised all the colors of midnight, black and purple and blue. He whimpered in a manly fashion as he splayed his toes, giving them each a stiff wiggle. Nothing broken- but it wasn’t for lack of trying. Sometimes even Dean managed to get lucky.

He found where he had abandoned his phone and flipped it open. One missed call from… from Sam.

There it was, glowing in beautiful neon letters like a sign from god.

Immediately Dean’s hands started shaking. Sam hadn’t called his big brother since he left Tulsa. Sam hadn’t answered his damn phone either. He had sent Dean straight to voicemail for the first few months until finally Dean gave up trying. Gave up hurting himself.

And now, a few months shy of a year since he stormed out, Sam had called him.

And Dean had been in the bathroom, ignoring the call like the jackass he was.

He couldn’t bring himself to push the button. Not for voicemail and not for a quick redial.

No one had ever been stupid enough to call Dean a coward- but that’s alright. He managed it on his own often enough. A man not brave enough to even listen to his only brother’s voice was certainly a coward of the finest caliber.

What if Sam had called to tell Dean that he hated him, what if he said all those horrible things that Dean had been telling himself for the past ten months? He was a corrupt son of a bitch, devoid of morality, depraved and damaged down to his core.

He knew it.

He knew his brother knew it.

Sam had had front row seats when Dean fell apart, after all. He had played a key part in it.

Even though Dean feared the echoes of his own self deprecation coming from his brother’s mouth- part of him knew that that couldn’t be why Sam had called. He had never been that kind of person.

 He could have called months ago to damn Dean… if he wanted to.

 He could have torn Dean apart with a few well chosen words. But he hadn’t then and he wouldn’t now.

Dread darted though Dean, a shadow of the fear that he tried to ignore.

What if Sam had called for help?

What if he was injured and bleeding somewhere- and here was Dean, sitting on his ass, wondering ‘he loves me, he loves me not’ like a little girl.

Dean took a slow breath and held down the button for voicemail.

It was a simpler offering than calling Sam back. He wouldn’t have known what to say if his brother answered. At least this way he had a moment to try and figure out what he was getting himself into, to collect his thoughts, to figure out what his emotions were doing.

Down the line came heavy breathing, Sam’s sharp breaths, uneven and halting. And for a horrible moment Dean knew, he _knew_ that somewhere out there his brother was hurt. He was hurt and there wasn’t a damn thing that Dean could do.

“Heeey.” Sam’s voice was slow and uneven. “Heey, Dean.” The kind of voice he got when he was drunk.

Dean almost dropped his phone, his hands were shaking so bad. Sam was… Sam wasn’t hurt. His baby brother was drunk dialing him. What fresh hell could this be?

“I…” Sam took a hiccoughing breath, broken and odd sounding and Dean could not even begin to figure out what sort of emotion went with it.  

“Pick up the phone, Dean.” He whispered, softly begging. “I need to know you’re still alive.” Long seconds passed and all that Dean could hear were those shaking breaths. “Just… just answer the phone, fucker.” Harsh words spoken so softly, so much affection that Dean thought it might kill him and then the line went dead.

Dean listened to the message three more times, trying to work up some kind of courage.

He hadn’t heard his brother’s voice in almost a year.

It did funny things to him.

Bad things.

Unholy havoc tearing him apart inside.

He called Sam back. Part of him was very against this course of action, because it couldn’t take him to any place good- but it was like part of him was acting under its own accord. Autopiloting him towards earth shatteringly bad things. Or greatness.

Maybe he could just pretend that only good things could come from him calling his drunk-ass brother back in the middle of the night. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time he lied to himself.

Five rings in and Dean was about to hang up, thinking that this was the same, painful sort of mistake that he had been making for months before he gave up and stopped calling. Sam wouldn’t answer. He never did.

Soft _click_ followed by the oddly disordered sound of his brother breathing and Dean felt the bottom drop out of his stomach.

“Dean?” Sam asked hoarsely after the world’s longest pause.

“I’m here.” Of course he was. There wasn’t any other place he would want to be. If given the choice of being out here in Logan with a phone pressed to his ear- or being beside his brother wherever the hell that might be… Dean wouldn’t change a thing. There were at least miles between them, dean swore that if they were any closer than fifty miles he would be able to _feel_ Sam. Those miles, however few or many they would be equaled safety. Safety for Dean from himself. From all the stupid things that he might do if he got a chance to be within arms’ reach of his brother again.

Silence followed.

He didn’t know what to say.

“I … it’s good to hear you.” Sam was slurring on the edges, and Dean could imagine the way that his brother would be listing to the side, eyes closed, the line of his mouth gone careless. Sam was such a lightweight. It wouldn’t take much more than two beers to make his words come out so uneven. “I was worried you might- you might be… dead.”

“Dead?” Dean screwed up his face, eyebrows tight.

“It’s been-”

“Months.” Dean finished for him.

“You never left any messages and then, and then you stopped calling.” Sam probably, if he was aware of himself at all, wanted to sound forceful, accusatory. It sounded more like a whine. He had never been good at being drunk.

Dean could have said ‘ _you never answered’_ or ‘ _thought that’s what you wanted’_ , but he said neither. He wasn’t the drunk one. It was his job to be the responsible one here, and those kinds of words wouldn’t help the situation. That much he knew.

“Sorry, Sammy.” And he wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for. For the pain in his kid brother’s voice. For the fact that he hadn’t been strong enough to keep making all those unanswered calls to no one. For what he had done in Tulsa. Perhaps he was just sorry for all of it. Lord knew that, if given the chance and enough time, Dean could make a list a mile long of all the wrongs he had writ on his baby brother.

“Miss you.” Sam muttered down the line.  

“Yeah.” Dean’s eyes felt hot and he closed them, not sure what was wrong with him.

“Keep talking, Dean, please.”

He swallowed thickly, not really prepared for hearing his name said like that. “What d’ya want me to say, Sammy?”

“A-anything. Fuckin’anything. Jus need t’hear you.”

And he knew that it wouldn’t matter what he said now. Sam was so far gone it would be shocking if he remembered this conversation tomorrow morning in the throes of his inevitable hangover.

So what do you say when you can say anything at all? Hell if he knew. He just let his mouth run, it was one of his specialties. “You know how when you were a kid, and you kept bringing home stray animals, and dad kept making you set them free because we couldn’t keep all those cats and dogs and lizards.”

Sam made a soft noise, something like a laugh but not as nice.

“Well, I found the perfect pet for you today.” Dean kept going, not really sure what his words meant. “I think they were Lavellan- freaking giant water rats. Like, big enough to ride.”

“Rats?”

“They were halfway between rats and the devil- I swear to you. They even spoke English just like you don’t want your frothy biting monster rats to do. Dude, I’m gunna’ have nightmares about their giant rat teeth for years.” He glanced at his shoulder. At least it wasn’t bleeding any more.

“I hate rats.” Sam said unevenly.

Dean laughed and didn’t like the sound of it. “I know, but these ones were _giant_. That has to change things up a bit. Rats the size of bears, Sammy. You could have one instead of a car. Ride it int’a battle.”

“Ar’you ok?” It took Sam a bit too long to ask, but in his defense, he wasn’t all that clear right now.

“Bit banged up.” He admitted. “Still got all my important bits and pieces.”

“W’ats t’damage?” Sam honestly sounded worried. Even if it was only there because of dubious amounts of alcohol- he was worried. For a moment he wasn’t mad at Dean and maybe everything would be ok after all.

The slightly older hunter rattled off all his bumps and scrapes, a whole list of injuries like he was going shopping for them. Gotta pick up a pair of fractured ribs, three or four jacked up toes, bloody lip, set of teeth marks for my shoulder (don’t think they’re gunna get infected,) and a partridge in a pear tree. 

“Stitches?” Sam half asked. It was more of an assumption. Sam knew him well.

“Aw yeah. I did an awesome job at it too. I look like Frankenstein.” And he was smiling at his shoulder, oddly proud of the work he had done through the haze of pain.

“Frankenstein wass the doctor.” Sam said carefully, getting a little lost in the way he said the letter ‘S’. “Y’mean the munster.”

Dean imagined Sam, curled up on some seedy motel bed, smiling into his phone because he still, and always would, know better than his big brother. And the image made Dean smile for the first time in weeks, the little movement pulling at his split lip, stinging in a way most welcome.

“Smartass.” He said affectionately.

Sam got quiet again, still breathing too hard, too raged. “Where are you, Dean?”

His hands started shaking again, and Dean felt like this was a trap somehow.

He must have taken too long because when Sam spoke again it was proceeded by a noise too close to a sob. “Dean?”

“Right here, Sammy. ‘m still right here.” He spoke too fast, holding his phone tight enough that his hand hurt. Damn Sam and his inability to hold his liquor.

He was almost never a happy drunk, he tended to sway too fast and too hard towards darker emotions- anger and misery seemed to be his favorites.

“Miss you so much.”

“I miss you too, kid.” Those words shouldn’t hurt as much. Time should have softened the blow, but they made that night’s injuries seem unimportant by horrible comparison. Dean was just as broken as the night that Sam had walked out, guilt twisting in his gut like a knife.

“Don’t call me kid.” Sam’s voice shook, the words running together.

“Sam.” Dean said like an apology.

“Sammy.” His little brother corrected somewhere from the other side of the world.

Dean lowered himself to his side, lying down because he didn’t think he could sit there any longer. He was shaking too hard and he didn’t know if he hoped that it was from his injuries or from the effort of trying to talk to his brother.

A silence grew between them, Sam’s uneven breaths and the soft hum of the room’s heater were the only noises that Dean had for company. He closed his eyes tightly and found himself imagining that his brother was here with him, maybe on the other side of the bed, within arm’s reach if only he were to stretch his arm out and… and…

“Sammy.” He wasn’t sure how many times he had said his brother’s name, enough that it started to lose whatever meaning it might have once had.

“ ‘m so sorry, Sammy.” He thought he might have already said that once tonight- but he had saved up a lot of words just like those over the months that they had been apart. It felt kind of like that’s all he had left at this point. Just this depthless well of guilt that he was drowning in. He’d been weak for only a moment- just long enough to ruin everything, just long enough to get his hands on Sam and prove that he was the worst big brother in history.

His brother had stopped responding and Dean wondered if he hadn’t fallen asleep on the other end of the line.

“ ‘m fucking lost since you left.” It was easier to say the words when he thought that was no one listening. “I can’t do this without you, Sammy.” He could almost pretend that no one at all was saying them- at least no one here. No one who had anything left to lose. “I need you.”

For someone who was supposed to be sleeping, Sam sure did moan in the prettiest way. Dean’s mind went white- beautiful and blank. He recognized that breathy noise, it had haunted him for months. Sleepless nights and showers alike were plagued by the memory of those reckless little noises being dragged up from Sam’s rough throat. His uneven breaths had gone positively ragged, and he made another wantonly indecent sound that sent chills running every which way through Dean.

With a staggering force of will, Dean managed to open his eyes, probably wider than he should have. He had no idea what to feel right now. Horror or excitement. Neither felt right.

“Please, Dean.” Sam begged hoarsely into the phone. “Say it again.” The words were coming from somewhere low and ruined, hardly enough breath to make them heard. “Say you need me.”

Dean couldn’t. He couldn’t manage those simple words because all he had left to him in that moment was the startling image of Sam stretched out on a bed somewhere, holding his cell with one hand, the other one shoved down the front of his jeans, face and neck flushed as he arched and moaned. It didn’t matter if Sam wanted this, Dean reminded himself for the thousandth time in the past few months. It wasn’t suddenly ok just because they both wanted it.

“Dean- _Dean_ \- I can’t- please.” Sam was making all sorts of bad noises, practically sobbing with need, and Dean listened in fascinated horror, wondering just how much Sam had really had to drink tonight.

If Dean was broken before, he was decimated now. There would be no putting the pieces back together.

“Need you, Sammy.” His voice wasn’t his own. Some evil son of a bitch was talking for him, was chiseling the words on his tomb stone. ‘ _Here lies Dean Winchester- He went to hell for wanting to fuck his kid brother- He and his fine ass shall be missed’_

He pressed a cold hand over his eyes, like if he couldn’t see the room he could pretend that this wasn’t somehow happening.

“Miss you so bad.” Words coming out of him on their own accord, damning him with each syllable. “God, I wish I could touch you.”

Nails in the coffin.

Sam’s breath caught and the sounds he had been making so well vanished into breathy silence that was all Dean.

If Tulsa was any indication of the norm, Sam wasn’t particularly loud when he came- and it would seem that his soft choking noises followed by a moaning kind of sigh mean that their impromptu phone sex had ended just as quickly as it had started.

Dean felt oddly dirty.

His skin too tight and ill fitting.

The silence stretched too long and this time Dean was certain that the stress and alcohol had won. Sam was out for the count.

Slowly, because he knew just how wrong it was and even that couldn’t stop him- Dean took his hand from his eyes and worked down the zipper on his jeans.

He was already going to hell for this.

What did it matter if enjoyed himself on the way down?

.:.

Sam had called two nights ago, drunk as a sailor on shore, and Dean felt this sickening relief to know there must have been such a confusing morning after for his brother. Jeans and boxers pushed south of narrow hips, stomach and hands sticky from what he could only assume had been a wet dream. Skin gritty, salt on his upper lip from sweat that had dried sometime in the night- and most damning of all, beside him on the bed would have been his cell phone, still open, battery dead. He would have charged the phone, and to his horror he would have seen that the most recent call had been from his brother, at almost two in the morning, lasting over an hour.

Dean knew all of this because, with very few changes, it was exactly how he had woken up. Except that Sam would have had a glorious hangover to contend with, erasing the night, bringing every little detail of the morning into question.

No such providence found Dean. He _knew_. He knew that Sam had fallen asleep about twenty minute into the phone call. Dean had lain there for over twice that, just listening to his brother sleeping until Sam’s phone finally died. And Dean got to live with that horrible knowledge as he stood under a cold shower, scrubbing dried semen from his stomach.

He hated himself in a special way that morning, letting himself think about his brother for the first time in weeks, soul heavy with guilt.

Two days later and Dean was still taking cold showers, still hating that dark, sick part of himself that couldn’t seem to forget the way that Sam had moaned his name when he came.

Dean had spent the months since leaving Tulsa trying to come to terms with the infection he’d discovered and he thought that he had made some kind of progress.

Talking to Sam had undone all of that and Dean was back to square one.

It was night again, though to be honest all time seemed to just be blurring together, divided only subtly by periods of light and dark. Dean was driving, strangling the steering wheel and listening to the rush of wind through the open windows. The late spring air up in Montana was still frosty cold, and the car’s heater growled out on full blast. The combating temperatures helped to keep him awake.

Headlights and star lights and the gentle yellow glow of the dash were all he had to see by, and the highway just went on endlessly before him, stretching like a midnight colored ribbon up to meet the black of the sky. He glanced at the clock on the dash and it was almost four in the morning. The speedometer caught his eye before he looked back at the tarmac.

The Impala was pushing one-twenty. She literally couldn’t go any faster.

Dean dug his nails into the wheel. He had no idea why he was out this time of night. He wasn’t on a hunt. By all rights he should have been safely tucked away in a motel instead of burning up the highway like the devil was on his tail.

He was miserable, and all at once it came to him why.

Dean had fallen in love with someone he had no business being in love with.

Foot off the gas, the car coasted at staggering speeds for maybe another mile before an uphill incline forced her to slow. Dean shakily pulled to the side of the road, kicking up gavel and grit in his wake.

Try as he might, he couldn’t stop shaking. He felt like he had had too much caffeine, dizzy and sick and only connected to his limbs in the most fundamental sense. The sudden rush of adrenalin made his blood sing.

As he saw it, clear as sunlight streaming across the dawn, there was only one course of action he could take.

The cell phone almost fell from his numb hands twice, and wasn’t he supposed to be hyperaware? Strung out on adrenaline which should have made every action crystalline clear and focused, but he was all thumbs.

It rang and rang and no one answered. No surprise there, besides- it would have been a shame to break from tradition this late in the game.

“Sam...” Dean’s voice was oddly high and he fought it down. “I’m just outside Fort Benton, Montana.” He swallowed thickly. “I need you here, man.” It was the truth. Dean couldn’t lie to his brother anyways, so he kept it vague and he prayed that it would be enough. That somewhere in there- the anger and resentment that Sam felt towards him would be overridden by whatever loyalty that might remain.

“Please.” He said softly before hanging up and tossing the phone onto the seat beside him.

This was the best he could do. He would wait for his brother. Wait and hope, and that’s what he had been reduced to.

If he was even half as tech savvy as his brother, Dean could have somehow traced Sam’s phone, pinpointed where he was and hunted him down. But there was no laptop at his disposal and no new age computer-hoodoo to tell him how to use GPS tracking. It left Dean with more mundane means of finding Sam.

He had grown up hunting down the guilty, but a runaway brother (with few exceptions) wasn’t the same as a monster hiding in a small suburban town. There wouldn’t be news articles about Sam. There wouldn’t be signs of his passing like claw marks on trees or dead crops.

What sorts of signs would there have been to look for?

Salads eaten at an alarming rate?

Sightings of a plaid wearing yeti?

Dean couldn’t just go and hunt Sam down, tackle him to the ground and tell him… tell him it was time to come back. That they had work to do, that he was struggling- even if just emotionally. He was falling apart out here on his own.

It killed something in Dean to admit it even to himself, but Sam might not come back. He didn’t want to be within spitting distance of his big brother. And if actions spoke louder than words then Sam was practically screaming. And the things he was screaming were anything but nice.

There was no need to clarify. No translation necessary.  Sam didn’t want to be there for their mutually assured destruction.

And to be fair- Dean had been the first one to blink in their game of chicken. He had backed down, panicking and pushing away. Sam was only following his lead, like he had been doing for over twenty years.

If there really was a god- then Sam would follow Dean, just one more time.

.:.

Two days later, and Dean was considering the benefits of attending church. Even if just to say thanks.

He had camped out in Fort Benton, not daring to leave the town in case Sam showed himself- and it paid off. Through the window of the diner, across the parking lot from the Five and Dime, he could see his towering moose of a brother. Sam had parked a little blue Prius three spots down from the Impala and was standing in the wind. The last year had let Sam’s hair grow longer, shaggy almost to his jaw, blowing in the breeze like some kind of artsy lumberjack. Shaggy and plaid and ruggedly beautiful.

It took all of sixteen seconds for Sam to walk towards the diner, long gait purposeful. He came in like a storm, eyes searching the room with something near panic before he saw Dean in the corner booth and his broad shoulders visibly relaxed.

Like watching a movie he had seen a hundred times, Dean saw the emotions moving over his brother’s face, the careful way he took stock of his big brother, assessing any possible damage- but Dean was almost fine and in a heartbeat Sam went from worried to mildly annoyed. He didn’t go to the back of the room where his brother sat, instead he went to the counter and ordered a coffee.

As if he had something to prove, Dean sat where he was, poking around the spilled sprinkles from the doughnut he had eaten earlier. He had waited almost a year, he could wait the few minutes it took for Sam to finish his coffee. Maybe.

Instead he could watch, like a creepy voyeur from his corner. Watch Sam’s big hands curling around the white ceramic. There were bruises on his knuckles, skin split here and there, thumbnail on his left hand black. Head turned away at an odd angle all Dean got was that too long hair and the soft golden brown skin of his neck and jaw. His mouth looked like it was frowning between sips of coffee, his lower lip healing, faint redness and a shallow line.

Either Sam had been getting into bar fights or he had been hunting. His light jacket masked the more detailed lines of his shoulders and back- but Dean thought he saw the hint of a gun tucked into the back of his jeans.

Sam managed to get a little over halfway into his drink of choice before he stood, carrying his mug loosely, and he made his way back to Dean.

Heart racing, Dean watched the approach, feeling almost like some small kind of animal being stalked. Never in his life had he seen Sam as a predator- but here his little brother was, eyes dark, face in tired lines. He looked angry and exhausted, and Dean knew in an instant what that look meant. Sam hadn’t slept. He must have driven straight to Dean.

Two days.

It had taken Sam two days to get here.

What, did he come from Florida?

It would explain the tan. A southern state was the only way to get that much sun this time of year.

Sam looked like he wanted to say something, something that Dean could only guess at, but then he clenched his jaw and sat down.

Dean opened his mouth and before he could so much as say boo, Sam’s eyes flashed.

“Don’t.”

Drunk didn’t count. Two nights ago Sam had been slurring and soft, not at all himself. Other than that awful night, he hadn’t spoken to Dean in almost a year and good lord- he sounded amazing.

For once, Dean didn’t argue. Sure, he could be a pain in the ass, it was practically a second job to him, but he was just so damn happy to have Sam sitting across from him that he shut up and waited. Sheer panic was threatening to bring back up that doughnut. He guessed in part he hadn’t expected Sam to actually show, but here he was and panic could easily pass for bliss. For a little sliver of time he would allow himself to pretend that everything was as it should have been- back before Tulsa. It was just the two of them, Dean’s leg jittering, jostling with anxiety, Sam sitting across from him brooding and quiet. It was a variation on the life that they had had for years and it was good.

The waitress came by and refilled their coffees, asking if she could get them anything else.

“Pie, if you got it.” Sam told her with a tight smile.

“Piece for both of you?” She shifted her coffee pot and smiled.

“Just for him.” He nodded in Dean’s direction before looking back into his cup.

“You got it, hon.” And she walked off.

“Aw, Sammy-”

Sam never looked away from his coffee. “Shut up or I swear to god I will kneecap you under this table.” He selected two little pink packs of Sweet n’ Low for his coffee and tore them open with a tellingly unsteady hand. “I drove all the way across the United States thinking you were working a case, or in danger or something- and here you are just…” he looked up finally, bad emotions making his eyes dangerous and wet.

That shut Dean up, and any joy he was pretending to have suffered a swift yet painful death. He had done this to his brother. It wasn’t the kind of thing to be proud of.

Pie was set down before Dean and he managed a stunning smile he didn’t even come close to feeling. “Thanks, mam.”

“You boys let me know if I can get you anything else.” But she was already walking away.

The pie was left untouched, even though it smelled like love in pastry form.

“So, no case then?” Sam’s voice was oh so soft, like he didn’t trust himself.

“No. I… I was leaving Logan, just kind of taking the long way to Bobby’s.”

“Then why did you call me?”

Thousand dollar question right there. Dean eased himself back, clenching his jaw and biding his time in effort to find the best answer. “Why did you call _me_ a few nights ago?”

Sam examined his coffee thoroughly. “I don’t remember calling you.” A confession heavy with guilt. Even if he didn’t remember, he still knew it happened.

“Well you did.” Eye contact shouldn’t be so hard. They were both adults here, or at least close facsimiles.

Dean watched through hooded eyes, the way his brother moved, the achingly familiar rituals of his morning coffee. A year apart and he was still just Sam, a little more disheveled, a little more tan- but still Sam. Dean knew those broad shoulders and narrow nose, those slightly crooked ring finger from an old break when he was thirteen, tiny pink dimple on the right side of his neck from where he was grazed by a bullet at twenty-five, the pale crescent shaped burn on his right wrist from a brushing against a heated shotgun muzzle at eight. All those little bits of Sam- chronicles of his life that Dean could read off like a story he knew by heart.

There was probably something very wrong with Dean.

More than normal.

He was already learning to coming to terms with it.

“Do I want to know what I said?” Sam asked his coffee. He didn’t want an answer, at least not an honest one. He looked ready to run at the first wrong word. Sam knew how he got when he was drunk, and he had most likely spent the past few days imagining the worst possible scenarios.

“You asked where I was.” Dean spoke soft and even, like he was telling the truth. “I told you I was out in Utah on a hunt.” He crushed a pink sprinkle beneath his thumb nail. “Then you passed out.” Which was mostly true. Mostly.

Sam looked up for a heartbeat, a flash of confusion and teeth, and then he glanced out the window- anywhere that wasn’t at his brother. “I passed out?”

“Don’t try and act surprised- you were drunk off your ass. It _always_ ends with you passing out.” Sexual acts of any kind had never really factored into it before, but now didn’t seem like a good time to bring it up. Dean could let his brother live in ignorance of that little fact. It made this conversation feel safer.

“How much did you have to drink, Sammy?” Dean had been wondering what threshold had been passed to finally earn him the phone call he had been waiting months for.

“About half a forty.” Sam mused under his breath before toying with the sugar packets again. “Why am I here, Dean?”

“Apparently you were hoping I was hurt. Sorry to be such a damn disappoint.” He tried to make a bit of a joke, but it really didn’t sound like one.

“You said you needed me, what was I supposed to think?” Sam hissed between clenched teeth, obviously still keeping his anger close to his chest, not letting it cool too much after all this time. It was a shame. They could have had such a nice breakfast together otherwise.

“You could have called back,” Dean suggested softly, “instead of driving all the way out here.”

For some reason that suggestion seemed to make his brother angry. Sam didn’t say anything; he just glowered and sipped his coffee, shoulders hunched and tight.

Dean was wise enough to not state the obvious. Sam knew he could have called, he could have asked Dean what had gone wrong- but he didn’t. He had dropped everything and driven pell-mell cross country to come to his brother’s side. He hadn’t wanted a reason _not_ to come, and Dean wondered how long Sam had been looking for an excuse.  Any reason at all to come back. Or maybe that was just Dean projecting.

 Ah, but he was a mess. He had been for months. He didn’t know why he thought that this would fix things. It all would be so much simpler if they both weren’t so damned stubborn.

Stubborn and stupid.

“There… might be a case out in Yellowstone.” Dean lay out like a peace offering. “Two park rangers gone missing. We could look into it; see if it’s our kind of thing… you know, before the park opens for camping season.”

Sam pushed his mug away, it wasn’t empty, but he had always had this weird thing where he never fully finished a coffee, and Dean, who had spent a lifetime watching his kid brother had always found it slightly more endearing than annoying. Besides, everyone should be allowed their little quirks.

Easy as you please, Dean took that cup of coffee and finished it off, just as he had done a hundred times. It was one of those quirks. Something he hoped he never grew out of.

“It could just be bears.” Sam sounded cautious, watching Dean’s hands around the coffee cup instead of watching Dean himself. “People missing in a national park, hibernation season just ended… why wouldn’t it be bears?”

“Hibernation season?” Dean found himself smiling.

Sam just looked tired, not answering the smile.

“I think there are other things that can go dormant during the winter, and it’s worth looking into.”

Even though it went against every natural law, Sam pulled Dean’s pie over and forked himself off a bite. Sam didn’t even like pie. Dean watched in fascination as the flaky pastry and painfully red cherries disappeared into his brother’s mouth.

“If it’s just bears then you owe me a beer.” Sam said around the bit of pie, eyes still somewhere near his big brother’s hands.

“Deal.” Dean said too quickly, trying to ward off that god awful feeling clawing at his chest. He didn’t know how to tell his brother he loved him. Didn’t know if ‘sorry’ was going to fix anything at this point.

But he did know that for right now, until he screwed it up again, he had his brother back. It would be pure greed to ask for more. “Now give me back my pie, bitch.” Not _much_ more at least.

Sam pushed it back towards him, but the word ‘jerk’ never passed his lips, and try as he might, Dean knew he couldn’t just pretend that they were ok again. That they were ever going to be ok. But at least they had a place to start.

And pie.

So all was not lost.

.:.

The thing in the woods only resembled a bear in the way that dolphins resemble sharks. The folds of its skin hung loose, matted and rank, bones of its back visible where the skin was pulled the tightest. Black teeth stuck out ragged from a mouth that opened too wide, and putrid eye sockets seemed to follow them wherever they went- it obviously didn’t need eyes to see the brothers.

It wasn’t a bear. It was a nightmare the size of a minivan and it smelled like a slaughter house.

Dean had a shotgun loaded with rocksalt (for whatever good that was going to do him) as well as a Desert Eagle which was overkill for practically anything he might come up against- except this. The three shots he had gotten off were louder than thunderclapps, tearing though the bear’s shoulder and into the trees behind it, leaving a hole big enough to put a fist through. The creature didn’t even miss a step. It just kept coming at them, frost hard ground torn up beneath its claws.

Sam on the other hand… well, Sam had armed himself with two bottles of water, some granola bars, a hunting knife, and apparently a Walter PPK. The little gun looked ridiculous in Sam’s giant hands, like a child’s toy. He hadn’t thought that they would find anything. He had been wrong, but now was not the time to rub that in.

Now was time for running.

“Seriously, Sam?” Dean stumbled over some tree roots that had looked a bit smaller than they actually were. His brother’s hand caught his arm and hauled him along, dragging until his feet got back under him. “A Bond gun?”

“Now’s not a good time.” Sam wasn’t even winded, keeping pace with Dean in long easy strides.

“I’m just sayin’-” he huffed. “Think you know a guy- an he pulls out a fuckn’ Bond gun.”

Sam juked to the side, pulling his older brother along with a hand in a death grip on his wrist, suddenly making it to one of the dirt trails laid out to keep campers safe from getting lost in the woods. They could follow it to the road, maybe get to the car- but the only thing that had kept them clear of the bear-thing so far was that it had to maneuver its mass around the larger trees (smaller ones just got pushed down, snapping like toothpicks). The road removed the obstacles and there was no way that they would be able to outrun the thing on a straight away. Dean was a fine sprinter, but they had been at it for almost five minutes now. It wasn’t called sprinting anymore. This was cross country and Dean had worn the wrong shoes.

“Gotta’ keep off the road.” His breath caught in his throat, ragged, chest burning.

Being the good brother that he was, Sam just kept on dragging him along, back into the tree line. But they couldn’t keep up this pace forever. They couldn’t even keep it up for another minute- or at least Dean couldn’t.

But he didn’t have to.

Sam went down, legs cut out from under him and he rolled in the underbrush, crying out in more shock than pain. Dean’s momentum carried him a good two yards before he was able to slow down enough to turn and find the tangle that was his brother. All he saw was the monster, barreling down on him, tongue lolling, decayed and dark. He leveled the Desert Eagle and fired point blank into that mouth from maybe a foot away. Blood and bone exploded outwards, hot and painful and Dean went down because the damn thing still didn’t stop.

For a startling moment the world went white, sound dropping out in a rush as the back of his head slammed into the ground. Dean fought it, pushing the fog away like his life depended on it- because in all actuality it did in that moment.

His head cleared enough to let his eyes focus on the bear-thing’s ruined jaw as it cut at his chest, incisors tearing his jacket. The thing probably weighed over five hundred pounds and it pinned Dean down without the smallest sign of effort. He couldn’t get his arm’s up, couldn’t move enough to angle the gun right for another shot.

And then, like a beautiful plaid angel, his brother was there, shoving his stupidly small gun as well as half his arm into the bear’s hollow left eye socket. Dean didn’t know how many times the gun went off; the giant skull was a great silencer.

It would have worked so much better if the bear hadn’t been on top of Dean when Sam blew out the back of its head. The full weight of the thing came down on him and he thought he was going to die, crushed to death under almost half a ton of rotting zombie bear. But Sam was there to fix that too.

Not strong enough to move the monster, Sam got his hands on Dean, under his shoulders, on his chest- and he pulled. Dean came out, slick with blood that he distantly hoped wasn’t his own, gasping and choking and struggling to get in enough air once the weight was off his chest.

Sam collapsed backwards, laying beside him on the cold, cold ground and frost pale leaves, their breaths filling their air with little clouds of condensation. Dean wanted to reach out to his brother, to touch him, to make sure he was all right, but he couldn’t get his arms to move. All he could do was breathe, and maybe that was enough for right now.

“Y-you… owe me… a beer.” Sam said loudly between breaths.

Dean tried to laugh, but it sounded a lot more like a groan. “Fuck… you.” He forced out. “Wasn’t no… damned… bear.”

Sam’s hand pressed down on his shoulder, gently, not much threat. “Shaadup, or… I put you back… under it.”

“You can try.” He closed his eyes against the grey of the sky, knowing it was the most idle of idle threats and he was safe.

Sam’s hand remained, a comfortable weight. “Can you move?”

“No.” And Dean realized he was grinning.

Sam made soft noises, shuffling leaves, little snaps and crackles of twigs, and he must have sat up. “Are you hurt?” His voice coming from somewhere above Dean now.

“No.” But that might be a lie. He opened his eyes to see Sam looming over him, blood masking half of his face, too much of the whites of his eyes showing. He looked feral and not at all like himself.

“Can you get up?”

“Dude, I just said I couldn’t move.” What about this wasn’t Sam getting?

Those same big hands that had saved him moved over his chest, unzipping his ruined jacket, pressing against his ribs, a cursory check for injuries. Dean hissed in pain as his brother found a stunningly tender spot on his right side.

“Same fractured ribs as before?” Sam looked up at him, worry making dark lines around his mouth and eyes.

“Same ones from Logan.” Dean assured, managing to hit Sam’s hand away so he would stop pressing on them. It hurt to breathe and someone trying to gently collapse one of his lungs wasn’t helping.

“Any of this blood yours?” Sam’s eyes were all over him and Dean wondered how bad he must look.

“Don’t think so.” He got his hand on Sam’s shoulder and tugged, a silent request to help pull him upright, and Sam was on it in an instant. Strong arm around Dean’s back, hauling him upright and they were sitting side by side, bloody and bruised and everything was right with the world in that moment.  

“How hard did you hit your head?” Sam looked strained, obviously suffering injuries of his own.

Dean pursed his lips, trying to straighten the tumbled string of events in his mind. “I didn’t hit my head.”

“Your eyes, Dean.” Sam pointed out so calmly, which looked odd in conjuncture with his bloody face. “You look high as a kite. Your pupils-”

“ ‘s just excitement.”

“It’s a concussion.” Apparently Sam was not as willing to write it off as easily as Dean.

And without asking, Sam’s big hands came and started poking around on Dean’s head, looking for soft spots- or holes- or whatever non medically trained people look for when they expect massive head trauma.  

“Dude,” Dean smacked at his brother’s arms. “I’m _fine_.”

Sam ignored him, using the edge of a sleeve to scrub a clean spot on Dean’s face. The vigorous movement swayed Dean, rocking him slightly and he felt a roll of nausea, his head falling back.

“Oh, god.” He huffed, swallowing down the feeling as best as he could. “Stop. Stop. Stop.”

The world tilted and Dean found himself hunkered forward, head between his curled knees, groaning as lights exploded behind his closed eyes. Sam’s hand was warm against his back, an anchor keeping Dean from floating away.

“Concussion.” His little brother said softly, smartass that he was. Never knew when to just let it go.

“Fuck you.” Dean whispered between gritted teeth, because his brain was trying to escape and he didn’t need anyone telling him ‘ _I told you so’_.

“Come on.” Sam’s arm snaked around his back, hand hooking under an arm. “Come on, Yogi. Let’s get you to the car.”

“Alright, Booboo.” He fumbled, getting an awkwardly backwards grip on his brother’s jacket.

The whole of the world lurched as Sam dragged him to his feet and he had to lean away, bending half over so he could vomit on the ground. Inwardly he was grateful that Sam was the only one there to witness it- because his kid brother had seen him in far worse shape many times before. Sam was about the only person who wouldn’t be judging him right now.

They stumbled to the car, nearly a mile away. The long walk in the cold air was not enough to relieve Dean’s fractured head. It was more like a punishment, throbbing and aching with each step. His enormous brother the only thing that kept him going in a forward direction when all he wanted to do was get himself horizontal.

“I think you’re bleeding.” Sam said in that same ‘ _I told you so’_ tone.

“ ‘s from the bear.” And Dean cursed himself for admitting that he now owed Sam a beer.

“It’s too red to be from the bear.”

Well, _damn_. “I’ve got first aid stuff in the trunk.” Dean knew enough to understand how bad it was that his body felt numb in comparison to the stabbing headache he had. Not being able to feel injuries was a _really_ bad sign.

Sam leaned Dean up against the car like a piece of lumber, resting him against the roof, not enough energy to complain that he was inadvertently smearing the passenger window with blood. Sometimes Sam just didn’t have enough respect for his baby.

The firstaid kit, an improvised old Thundercats lunch box, was produced from the trunk after much rifling and then Sam was back at his side, opening the backseat of the Impala and gently maneuvering Dean to perch on the edge of the seat.

“Enough.” He batted at his brother’s hands. Maybe he had a concussion, but he wasn’t an invalid. He could sit down all by himself.

For no good reason at all, Sam didn’t let go of him, quite the opposite. One of those big warm hands caught Dean’s cheek, long fingers reaching all the way back behind the curve of his jaw.

 “Sam?” And that certainly didn’t sound like Dean’s voice.

“Just sit still so I can patch you up.” Sam had dangerously narrowed eyes. Dropping his hand but not moving away.

“I can do it myself.” Though that was probably a lie. Dean just wanted Sam off him. He was horrified at what he might do in his addled state. Sam standing too close, his belt buckle level with Dean’s face. It was impossible for him to _not_ think about all the horrible things that he could do to Sam. All those sorts of things that no one should imagine doing to their brother. Dark images already flashing through his mind.

But Dean didn’t blame himself. it was Sam’s fault. He had put those thoughts in Dean’s mind nearly a year ago. He’d given Dean the idea. A horrible beast of an idea, colored vibrant with the memory of that night. Living deep inside of him, budding, changing, growing stronger with time, down deep in the recesses that Dean had shoved it. Only to rise up, dark and visceral at the worst possible time. Flashes of images like a flipbook. The scratch of the motel carpet on his arms. Sam’s mouth on his, hungry and rough. Hands pushing at Dean’s jeans. Skin against skin. Sam bucking beneath him, moving his hips to the rhythm of Dean’s hands.

Dean knew he was blushing, face made hot at memories. He could no longer tell if they were of something that really happened or just fractures of some dark nightmare that he couldn’t shake.

“You can sit still and shut up, or I will make you sit still and shut up.” Sam didn’t give him many options.

The muscle in his jaw tight, Dean glared up at his giant of a brother.

“Good choice.”  Sam set the firstaid kit down beside Dean on the wheel well and started to tug Dean’s jacket off over his shoulders.

“Fuck off. You’re _not_ undressing me.” Any pretense at sitting still and quiet was gone in an instant.

“Didn’t hear you complaining last time.”

Sam’s words were like a slap across his face, and Dean took a sharp breath, recoiling as if he physically felt the sting. Sam used that moment of defenselessness to wrestle Dean out of his jacket, none too kind with Dean’s shoulder and that summoned up something that very much resembled real pain.

He gasped, eyes watering and Sam seemed to take note of the change and his touch became far more gentle, even if his mouth didn’t match.

“Stop being such a baby, Dean.”

“If fuckin’ _hurts_.”

“I bet it does. You tore your stitches.” He prodded at Dean’s very wet shirt sleeve, moving it up to reveal vivid amounts of blood, so very read against his pale skin, the wound raw and open where the giant rat had torn into him only a few days ago.

“You want to try and save the shirt?” Sam was looking at the gash with those angry eyes of his, same petulant scowl he’d had since he was thirteen.

That amount of blood wouldn’t just wash out. Plus, people at the Laundromat wouldn’t take too kindly to Dean trying. He knew a lost cause when he saw it.

“Whatever, man.” He turned his head away, looking over his shoulder at the steering wheel, wondering how long this would take- because Sam was close enough to smell under all the blood and rotting bear stench. That crack in Dean’s skull must have been big enough to let all his good senses leak out because he was starting to entertain some very bad thoughts about Sam’s stomach and how it was still well within reach of his mouth.

Sam took Dean’s indifference as permission to execute the tshirt which had never wronged anyone. Sam’s switchblade went _snicker-snack_ and the cold spring air raised goose bumps where it suddenly found access to his bruised skin.

“You’re going to need new stitches.” Sam said wisely, no hesitation in his assessment.

“Give me a needle.”

“No. You did a crap job last time.” There was a rough edge to Sam’s tone, obviously not interested in seeing more of Dean’s shoddy stitchery. He was already getting out some gauze and rubbing alcohol and starting to clean the bloody mess, his touch almost gentle. Almost.

“It’s _my_ shoulder.” Dean was shrugging away, and he felt like a little kid. _It’s my shoulder. You can’t touch it._ Why did Sam have to have such comforting hands? They felt better on Dean’s skin than they had any right to.

Sam never looked up, just got a firm grip on Dean’s arm, right above his elbow and held him in place as he continued scrubbing little white hot streaks of agony with his alcohol soaked cotton. “There is rope in the trunk and I swear to god, Dean, I will use it.”

There was something in the way Sam said it. Dean believed him.

He didn’t think he had ever sat so still.

Sam made quick work of it, but then again, it wasn’t his first time sewing Dean back together, and god willing it wouldn’t be the last. Quick, sure little stitches. Each one as hot and painful as a miniature bullet wound. Eighteen little white strikes against his skin, as straight and evenly spaced as a dentist’s wet dream.

“It looks infected.” His brother said softly, leaning against the open door, looking critically at his handiwork.

“It’s fine.” Dean didn’t look up at him, the little torn and muddy hole in his jeans, showing a sliver of his right knee was far more interesting. Besides, he had some antibiotics in his firstaid kit. That and a good splash of iodine should fix things up.

“If… I didn’t show up would you have come out here alone?” Sam sounded an awful lot like he already knew the answer to that one. It wasn’t much incentive to reply, so Dean kind of shrugged his good shoulder and said nothing. Honestly, if he hadn’t stopped out here in Montana, he never would have heard that the park rangers had gone missing. But knowing that there might be something out here? Something that needed to be killed? … Well, yeah he would have come out to face the bear-thing on his own.

“Damn it, Dean. You need to…” Sam sighed in a painful manner. ”You’re gunna get yourself killed if you’re not more careful.”

“The job is what it is, Sammy.” Death wasn’t so much as a possible hazard as it was a guarantee. One day Dean wouldn’t be fast enough, wouldn’t be strong enough, would bleed out too quick- and that would be the end of it. But it wasn’t today. Today he was alive. Today he had been knocked around by a half ton bear, but he was still breathing. Very much alive and ready to make more mistakes tomorrow. It was going to be awesome.

“Don’t just _smile_. What the hell am I supposed to do if you die on a hunt in the middle of nowhere? If someone finds your body how- how are they going to know to contact me? You’ll vanish, Dean. I’ll never know what happened and you’ll just be gone.” Sam didn’t sound worried or afraid for what might happen. He sounded angry, angry at this possible future that he had created for them.

Dean tried to stand, he didn’t want to be sitting if they were going to have a fight- however, Sam was too close to make that option a reality. Their feet were touching, boots against tennis shoes, and it was close enough that Sam had all the leverage he needed to shove his big brother right back down.

“I don’t know what you did in Logan, but you didn’t give yourself a chance to heal. You can’t just go running from hunt to hunt by yourself.” He towered over Dean so well, blocking out the pale winter sunlight. “You’re wearing yourself out. You’re going to make mistakes.”

“I don’t like working without back up, but it’s not like I’ve got much of a choice.” He was holding onto the seats, white knuckled and shaking just a little.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You left, Sam.” He finally managed to look up, and he didn’t know if it was anger or guilt that he wore on his face, but it was obvious his brother didn’t like it.

Sam looked wounded, taking a step back finally, stumbling a little. “Fuck you, Dean.” But his heart didn’t sound in it. “You told me to go. What was I supposed to do?”

“I-I never told you to go.” Of this Dean was sure. He would _never_ tell Sam to leave. It was the absolute last thing that he wanted. It was the thing he feared most in this world. It was the nightmare he had been forced to wake up to every day for almost a year.

And Sam’s bitch-face was there, tight lipped and halfway between annoyance and fury. He didn’t answer other than that.

Dean pulled himself to his feet, unsteady and he wasn’t sure why. “I never told you to go, Sam. You left and I waited. I waited in that damn motel for _weeks_ for you to come back.”

“You wanted me out of there.” Sam took another step back, keeping the distance between them even.

“Don’t fucking tell me what I wanted.” He pointed a finger at Sam’s chest, an oddly violent motion. “You know me, you know the last thing I ever wanted was-“

“You didn’t want _me_.” Sam’s voice rang off the trees like condemnation.

And you know, Dean couldn’t really argue with that. He had spent months trying to convince himself that very thing. Not with much luck- but he had tried, and now he feared that no matter what he said would come off sounding like all kinds of a lie. Something that even he couldn’t believe.

Yes, he had wanted Sam. For about eight minute on the dirty floor of a motel.

Hot and heavy, he let himself want Sam for less than ten horrible minutes. And it was beautiful and terrible and strange, knowing that he had let himself do such a terrible thing to his only living family member. The person who meant the most to him in the world, and Dean couldn’t think of worst way to screw things up than what he had done.

Sam had initiated it… and Dean knew he was going to hell for trying to push the blame to his brother.

Sixteen, Sam had said. He had been thinking about Dean like this since he was s _ixteen_. That was too young to make such a fucked up life choice on his own. When Sammy was that age all he did, all he wanted was to be like Dean when he grew up. And there was no way that Dean could think of what his brother had done and blame anyone other than himself.

He had encourage it somehow. Something in him had wanted it, on some level. He had watched over Sam, put his hands on him, held him so close that Sam had choked, and all the while this sick thing grew in him, sinking in to his bloodstream and distorting his perceptions, blackly corrupting his impressionable young self. It had taken Sam down, messed with his head until he thought that it was ok. That it was what Dean had wanted.

 _Still wanted_. The thought ricochet through Dean’s thoughts. Maybe he hadn’t then, at least not on a wholly conscious level. But he did now. Sam’s giant hands and the wicked curve of his mouth, his endless legs and slatted hips, his shoulders blotting out the sun. Dean wanted to push Sam’s shirt up and lick his stomach, bite the bones of his hips. He wanted Sam on his knees. Bent over the hood of their car.

Dean felt like he was going crazy. He wanted to scream. If anyone else in the world had been thinking these sorts of things about his little brother Dean would have literally shot them in the head.

Dean loved his brother, so much so that it kept him up at night.

Dean was _in_ love with his brother, so much so that it made him sick.

And Sam had to know at least the first half of that. He _had to_. There was no way he could have come so far in life and somehow missed the fact that he meant everything to Dean.

“See, Dean? I can’t get you to shut up any other time- then the moment I need you to say a single word-  just ‘no’, Dean. I need some god damned closure. I just need you say ‘no’ like you did back in Tulsa and you-“

Dean caught him by the shoulders, quick as he could, and dragged the stupid moose down until their mouths met and he managed to smother those terrible, terrible words. This wasn’t what Dean had called Sam for. This wasn’t the end game of getting his brother back. He had every intention of simply suffering his inappropriate feelings and thoughts if it meant that he could simply be in Sammy’s general proximity- that is exactly how messed up Dean was at this point in his life.

Kissing his brother had not entered into his master plan- but their mouths fit together like all those bad dreams and he found that he couldn’t regret this deviation from the plan. And Dean had expected Sam to kiss back, or maybe pull away and yell at him some more-

What he hadn’t expected was for Sam to shove him away even half as hard as he did.

Dean stumbled over the loose dirt and gravel of the road, catching himself on the trunk of the car, the metal cold beneath his hands. His shoulder twisting wrong, pulling at the fresh stitches. The pain was a pleasant distraction, but it wasn’t enough. He hadn’t been prepared for what it would feel to be pushed away. Rejection hurt like being sucker punched and Dean had already been through too much today. He had run his body too hard, he’d gone too high on adrenalin and come back down too fast. He felt weak and was hurting in more ways than one.

“Don’t you dare, Dean.” Sam was uneven. The line of his mouth, the tone of his voice, the angle of his shoulders. He was turning away from his brother, an incendiary look in his eyes. “You don’t fucking get to touch me. This isn’t some game where you can just switch sides whenever you feel like it.”

“Switch sides?” He wished that he had even half the brain as his brother, that he could follow his chaotic trains of thought and make sense of the nonsense that he being spouted at him.

“I can’t do it again.” Sam ran his hands through his hair, pulling it back from his face, making fists tight enough to be painful. “I came back because I thought you were going to do that thing where you pretend that nothing happened. You can’t ki… you just can’t. Ok?”

It was astounding how easily Sam could reduce Dean to something so fundamentally useless. He had no idea what to say to his brother. He only had one word left to him, so he used it- though it felt wholly inadequate.

“Sammy,” broken and begging and oh so lost.

“Christ, Dean.” He looked up at the sky like he was searching for strength. He moved on those long legs of his back to the trunk of the car and returned with a clean shirt. Dean kept a spare change of clothes back there just in case and now was one of those times he supposed. “Get yourself presentable.”

Clumsily, Dean took the shirt, debating if he was strong enough to take Sam down. If he would ruin the tenuous bit of trust that they had between them if he tried.

“And since you’ve got the concussion you don’t get to drive.” Sam held out a hand for the keys. “I’ll take you back to your motel.”

He had said it. ‘ _Your_ motel’, not _their_ motel. And Dean had this horrible feeling that this meant that Sam would be leaving. He had no proof, just this horrible feeling in his gut.

“No.”

Sam licked his lips, quick dart of his tongue. “You can’t drive, Dean. Not like this. Your eyes still aren’t focusing, and you’ve obviously not thinking straight.”

“Not- not the driving. Fuck, I don’t care if you drive.” He pulled the keys from his pocket and held them out. “You’re _not_ leaving again.” If Dean’s voice broke a little, it was only because he was tired. So tired. He didn’t feel in his right mind anymore, but that might have had less to do with exhaustion, or the threat of Sam leaving and more to do with head injury. God he hoped it was just the head injury, because that meant that if given a few days of rest and care he might be better.

“I- I’m not leaving.” Sam suddenly looked confused, the feeling grossly out of place on him.

“Swear to me.” Dean shook the car keys in a threatening manner and not because it hid the trembling in his hand. That was just a pleasant byproduct.

Sam grabbed him, silencing the metallic clanking, sliding a finger through the key ring. “I’m not leaving.” He repeated, more firmly this time, his fingers tight around Dean’s.

He meant only for today. Dean knew his brother enough to know that Sam probably only meant for today. And Dean supposed that he had no right to ask for more than that. He let Sam take the keys and go around to the driver’s side while he leaned against the cold of the car and struggled out of his ruined shirt and into a clean one. His shoulder burned with pain, protesting the movement, but Dean ground his teeth and growled through it. Then eased himself into the seat beside his brother, wishing it felt closer to home… like it used to. But it wasn’t his birthday, there were no shooting stars, and instead Dean felt like a stranger in one of the only places that he had ever wanted to be. Beside the only person he had ever wanted to be with.

Sam drove them into town, stopping at a drugstore because they needed gauze and iodine and sweedish fish. Or at least that is what Sam informed him. Dean’s body protested his little movements, leaning to unbuckle his seat, his joints already stiff and locking up after such a short ride.

“You’re staying here.” Sam informed him with a tone of voice most commanding.

“Like hell I am.” Dean had images of Sam making a break for it. Using this as an excuse to get out of the car and then he would just walk away while Dean sat on his ass waiting. Not knowing for long minutes that he had been ditched.

“Dean.” Sam’s tone softened just a little. There was nothing after that. No other words. He didn’t need them, because he tilted the rearview mirror so that Dean could see himself and that was reason enough.

Red-black blood had dried like war paint over Dean’s face, his eyes too wild and white, shallow red cuts in his lower lip. There were bits of bone and teeth in his hair.

“I’m… staying here.” He softly agreed, looking away, not wanting to make too much eye contact with himself. “Get your phone out.” He studied the world outside the window, the dark parking lot lit with little halos of amber light. “Talk to me while you’re in there.”

Sam was quiet for a breath too long, hesitating with the door half open.

“Dude, I’ve got a concussion. You’re really going to leave me alone in a dark car so I can fall asleep?” He wasn’t looking at his brother and it kind of startled him when his phone started to ring. He glanced over his shoulder to see Sammy holding his phone out, looking tired, but accepting of this plan.

“You going to answer it or not, Dean?” Sam shook his own phone in his brother’s direction, impatient.

Dean got a little grin, fighting it the whole way, digging his phone from a pocket and flipping it open. “Hey, Sammy.”

“Hey.” Sam almost smiled back as he dragged his too tall self from the car and closed the door with a solid _thunk_.

Through the already fogging windshield, Dean watched his brother go into the drugstore.  “How ya been, kid?” It was oddly much easier to talk to his brother over the phone than it had been where they were sitting side by side.

Sam chuckled weakly. “Been better.” The door chimed as he vanished into the almost blindingly bright store. “Feel like I’ve just gone eight rounds with a heavy weight.”

“Big baby. You came out of this with hardly a scratch.”

“It’s only because you suck at running.” There was some plastic rustling, and Sam must have reached the candy isle first. “Seriously, Dean. You’ve got to get in shape.”

“Excuse me?” He chuckled and his throat felt raw. “I almost broke my foot a week ago. Fitness’ got nothin’ to do with it. Give me another week and I’ll race you. Whoop your ass.”

“You haven’t been faster than me since I was eleven.” Sam sniffed softly. “I’m getting you a Snickers.”

Dean grinned in answer, leaning his head against the cool glass of the window. “You’re good to me, Sammy.”

 “Better than I should be.” He agreed softly. “You need any alcohol?”

“Scotch if they got it.”

“This is a drug store, Dean. Not a liquor store. Do you need any _rubbing_ alcohol?”

“Waste of money.” He closed his eyes, just listening to Sam and his soft even voice, his deep breaths.

“We should see if there’s any pizza places still open.”

“Chinese food.” Dean interjected, inwardly rejoicing the fact that Sam was talking about dinner together.

“Any Chinese food in Montana isn’t going to be Chinese food worth eating.”

Dean knew it wasn’t right what that voice did to him. Stomach in knots, knowing the little smile that Sam must be wearing. “Burgers?”

“Oh yeah, I’m imagining the looks we’ll get going into a Burger King with you all… in need of a shower.” It was better than saying that Dean looked like he had crawled his way out of a corpse.

“Drive through.” He said quickly, trying not to think of showering back in the motel, about pulling Sam with him in with him. That wasn’t a thought that would get him anywhere good.

“Can do.” Sam finally agreed. “Hold on a second.” Ruffling sounds of the phone being juggled around. “Eight-ninety two?” And Sam was paying for their goods, all the things that they needed which didn’t include hard liquor.  “Thank you.” Sam had such a sweet voice. He must have been smiling at the clerk.

Dean opened his eyes to see the monolith of his brother at the checkout counter, tall and dark from this distance, and Dean couldn’t make out the details.

Sam took his change, took his bag and came out into the cold night. His shoulders hunched immediately, and he half ran to the car. “Why is it so cold out here?”

“Because Montana sucks.” Dean answered. The only thing he had against the state was its weather, but this time of year it was enough.

“You’re telling me.” Sam yanked the door open, tossing his phone at Dean and setting the bag down on the seat between them.

Dean awkwardly caught the phone with his left hand, hanging them both up and putting Sam’s into the plastic bag.

“So, burgers?” Sam wasn’t quite looking at him, and Dean noticed, but tried not to let it get to him.

He had been in the town for a few days, more than long enough to know where the good burgers could be found and in less than half an hour they were back at the motel, sitting as far apart at the single queen sized bed would allow, eating their burgers and watching some X Files reruns.

“You really should go wash your face before you eat that.” Sam said, not for the first time. Apparently he was under the impression that Dean would somehow get the zombie bear’s blood in his mouth if he wasn’t careful- but Dean was too hungry to take the time to wash up. Besides, if he was going to get any blood in his mouth it had already happened and there wasn’t any way to fix it.

“Let me eat in peace, man.”

Sam gave his unrelenting bitch-face, a silent promise to make Dean clean up as soon as he finished that last bite of burger.

Dean pointedly watched the screen and the two FBI agents running around in dark places with their flashlights and alien conspiracies. “Even with those shoulder pads, Scully’s hot.”

Sam didn’t justify that with a response other than a quiet shake of his head, eating his turkey burger nonsense with too many vegetables.

Just like promised, before Dean even finished chewing up the last bite of his burger, Sam was shooing him off the bed. “Shower, Dean.”

And he wanted to be an ass and argue, but honestly a shower sounded good so he got up.

“And don’t fall asleep.”

“It’s a shower, Sam. I’m not going to curl up in the bottom of the tub for a nap.” He leaned in the doorway of the bathroom, glaring at his brother who took up too much of the bed. So many bad thoughts came to Dean right then. It had been too long since they had been together in a motel, and it hadn’t ended well. He wondered how Sam would react if he asked him to join him in the shower, then quickly decided against it.

“You might have a concussion.” Sam reminded

“It’s not the first one. I know what to do.”

“I know it’s not the first one. You know how many times I’ve seen something try to beat your stupid head in?”

“Five?” Dean threw out an answer, not being able to help himself.

“Today makes twenty-three.” Sam said with a sigh, worry lines making him look older than he really was.

“That can’t be right.” Dean waved off the idea.

“Massive head trauma.”

“I’m fine.”

“You haven’t been fine since we were kids, Dean.” Sam folded his hands over his stomach, trying to hide his agitation. “Should have checked you into a hospital or asylum years ago.”

Was that a joke? Dean wasn’t sure, so he rolled his eyes and gave his brother a long suffering smile, and blissfully, Sam smiled back. Tiny little thing, but it was perfect.

Dean went into the bathroom and closed the door most of the way behind him.

“Don’t fall asleep in there, and be careful of your shoulder.” Sam called to him.

“You’re not the boss of me.” Dean half sang back. He took a quick shower, overly careful of his shoulder, and it wasn’t because Sam had told him to. It was because, despite the vicodine he had taken from the glove box of the Impala, everything still hurt. Opium and head wounds weren’t a great combination, but he needed something to take the edge off.

Quick shower, and Dean did an almost perfect job of not thinking about his brother in the other room. He scrubbed blood and indefinable bits of bear from his body and didn’t let his hands linger too long on places that they shouldn’t.

“You get lost in there?” Sam called from the other side of the door.

“You wanna come in an find me?” Dean asked under his breath before turning off the water. “Calm down.” He said a bit louder. He had to sound annoyed, because it was expected, but honestly he was smiling, because Sam was still here and Sam was worried about him. There wasn’t anything that he had wanted more in the last year.

He came out of the bathroom, dressed in clean jeans, skin scrubbed until it was pink, hair still dripping wet down his jaw and the back of his neck.

Sam took one look at him, red creeping up his throat.  “How’s your head?” His tone so conversational, like he hasn’t just given his brother the kind of once overs usually reserved for soft and curvy coeds.

“It’s fine.” Dean did a good job not looking at his brother because he was horrified at what might happen if he were to blush as well.

“Your shoulder?”

“Less than fine.” He sat on the foot of the bed, admiring the wall, waiting.

It took all of thirty seconds for Sam to get up and sit beside him, not too close, but close enough. He rustled through the drugstore bag and Dean braced himself.

The sting and stink of iodine was almost overpowering, and Dean hissed through his teeth, but didn’t complain. It was like fire over his shoulder and he was reminded why he didn’t usually keep iodine on hand. Sam scrubbed and cleaned before lightly blowing on the gash, drying it before he could wrap it up. His breath was warm against Dean’s cooling skin. The heat of the shower not lingering long enough, though the creeping heat in his chest was a good replacement.

“What did you say did this?” Sam’s mouth was too close to his ear, voice kind of vibrating, prickling down his spine.

“Giant rats.” He had his eyes screwed tight, swallowing down the pain, pushing it to the back of his mind.

“Sewer rats?” Sam’s thumb had settled along the curve of muscle in Dean’s arm.

“Size of motorcycles.” Dean didn’t want Sam getting the wrong idea. Thinking that his big brother managed to get hurt by some little measly sewer rat. “And they could talk.”

“Could they now?”

“It wasn’t English- but yeah.”

“I guess you kept yourself busy while I was gone.” Seemingly satisfied with the dryness of Dean’s shoulder, Sam started wrapping it in scratchy gauze and white tape.

“Well, I wasn’t sitting around on my ass for months, if that’s what you thought.”

“I don’t know what I thought.” He smoothed the tape with steady fingers. “But I worried.”

“Not enough to come back.” Perhaps Dean sounded a little too spiteful, and he felt bad for that.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” He let go of Dean and stood. “I’m gunna get a shower. Don’t fall asleep while I’m gone.”

“God, you sound like a broken record.” Dean looked up at his brother, because there was too much hip leveled with his mouth and if he focused on that he was going to do something stupid.

Sam looked down at Dean, and that tinge of pink was still there on his neck and high on his cheeks as well. “Just keep talking to me, alright?” 

“Whatever you want.” Dean meant it. Right then, looking up into those puppydog eyes, Dean would give or do anything that Sam wanted.

Sam visibly shook himself, taking a step back, swallowing loud enough for Dean to hear. “Just talk so I know you haven’t curled up and slipped into a coma.”

As soon as he was outside of Sam’s line of sight, Dean dug for the promised Snickers bar, stole the bed’s second pillow and propped himself up, legs sprawled and oh so comfy. “How’s it going in there, Sammy.”

“Fine.”

“You naked yet?” As soon as Dean asked he regretted it. He had no idea what made the words come out of his mouth and his mind scrambled for a way to fix the mistake.

“What the hell, Dean?” Sam asked after a startled pause.

“Just trying to figure out how long this is going to take?” He tried to cover. “I know it’s gunna be forever for you to wash that long princess hair of yours, and then you’ve got to fix your makeup.”

“I get it.” Sam sighed in annoyance. “I’m a girl.”

The shower turned on and Dean stared really hard at the commercial for Tacobell on the tv screen.  He found he couldn’t eat his Snickers, the most he could do was not think about his brother.

He didn’t think about Sam as hard as he could.

“You fall asleep?” Sam’s voice was muffled with the white noise of running water.

“Nope. So awake right now.” Though sleep sounded good. He just couldn’t be sure if it was because the night was only getting later and later, or because there was bleeding in his brain.

“Keep talking, Dean.”

“Nothing to talk about.” He felt his eyes drifting towards the bathroom door. “You, uh… been out in Florida?”

“San Diego.” Sam shouted back.

Ah, opposite coast. It explained the tan at least. “You working a case out there?”

“No.”

“So just there for the surfing?”

Sam got quiet, or his answer was too soft to hear over the water. “I’ve got an apartment.” He said after a while.

Dean drew his knees up. An apartment? Sam had been living down there? Sam had a home. Sam had made a life for himself and it didn’t involve Dean.

 He had no idea that knowledge could be so painful.

“Well, I’ve been _staying_ in an apartment.” The water turned off. “With a friend of mine.”

 _Friend?_ Oh, Dean didn’t like how that was said. “Aw, you got yourself a girlfriend, Sammy?” Somehow, he couldn’t find a way to make himself happy about this.

“No.” Sam sounded so much clearer now. “Just a friend.”

Dean flexed his feet, wiggling his bruised toes. The bitter feelings in his gut loosened slightly and he closed his eyes again. “If you’re not hunting how’d you get so banged up?” The memory was still fresh in his thoughts, cataloging the little injuries on his brother only that morning. Knuckles and lip. Sam had been fighting, someone or something.

“Well… I was never as good at hustling pool as you.”

A smile curled over Dean, deep and all the way down. “You got the book smarts, kid. But you never had a good poker face.”

“You were always the better liar.”

“Come on, we all have to be good at something.”

Sam came out of the bathroom, dressed in sweats and a tshirt that was pulled just a little too tight over those broad shoulders and that strong chest he had picked up somewhere. Towel over his head, scrubbing water from his long hair. “Glad you found your talent of being a smart ass at least.”

Dean nodded, still smiling. “It’s nice to have something to fall back on.”

Sam huffed a soft laugh and tossed the wet towel at Dean. “Just in case hunting doesn’t work out?”

Some kind of awkward noise came out of Dean as he dodged to try and avoid the towel unsuccessfully. He threw the heavy, wet thing on the floor and glanced up with a jump. Sam was just there, beside the bed, way too close again.

“Let me check your eyes.”

“Why?” He was glad that his knees were already up, the preemptively defensive position made him feel marginally better.

“To see if you can focus yet.” And Sam had a small smile, gentle and in good humor for the first time since he had shown up this afternoon. “Head up.” He pointed to the ceiling.

Even knowing what was coming didn’t make it easier to settle into. Dean lowered his legs and tipped his chin up. Sam put the heel of his hand over Dean’s left eye, warm skin against his cheek and eyebrow.

It was hardly fair. Just a few hours ago he had been yelling at Dean not to touch him and now here Sam was, cradling his jaw with one hand, holding the side of his face with the other, fingers in his hair. Like a punishment for slipping up earlier. Like Sam was testing him, seeing if Dean would be able to behave himself.

He lifted his hand and warm light flooded over that side of Dean’s face, stinging his eye. Sam repeated the process with his right eye, testing to see if his pupils would dilate and retract like they were supposed to. Maybe Dean had had too many blows to the head because Sam was way too good at this. He’d had too much practice over the years.

“I’m not a doctor,” Sam said slowly, covering Dean’s left eye again, “but I’m gunna say I see no signs of internal bleeding and you’re good to go to sleep.”

“Well, hallelujah.” He tried to smile. He really did, but Sam was still holding his chin, his skin smelling of cheap motel soap and faint hints of gun powder.

“I… I know why you did it, Dean.”

“Did what?” God, why hadn’t Sam let go yet?

“Remember when we were kids and Dad would leave us alone for weeks?” Sam was looking down at him still, grip loosening, hand slipping. “We’d start to run low on food sometimes. You had to be just as hungry as me, but I’d complain and you’d give me whatever you had.”

Dean guessed he remembered that. It certainly sounded like something he would do, but there wasn’t one specific memory he could dredge up.

“Or I’d want to go to a museum and you’d want to go to the movies- and every time we would end up in the museum. You didn’t want it, but I did and you,” Sam’s hands finally dropped, “you’d always give in.”

Despite recent head injuries, Dean followed that train of thought, and for once his brother couldn’t be more wrong. “Sam,” Dean’s voice was sharp like a warning.

“No, I- I get it. It’s how things have always been between us.” Sam still had his little smile, but it had gone wrong, odd little curve that didn’t fit right. “I pushed you back in Tulsa and you-”

“You’ve got such a fucking martyr mentality sometimes.”

Sam’s smile completely left at that. “I know what happened, Dean. You said no and I kept going until you said yes. And then back at the park you thought that I wanted you to… so you-” He took a step away, strange emotions playing over his face. “I’ve been doing this to you since we were kids. And I’m sorry.”

“Sam.” Dean slowly pulled himself to his feet, silently wishing that he was the taller of the two because it would make it easier to stare him down. “I’m going to tell you this just once, so listen real careful, ok?” And despite that defiant flare that lit up Sam’s eyes, Dean kept going. “Shut the hell up, because you obviously have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Excuse me?” Those odd emotions settled on angry. Sam was good at angry, at least when it came to Dean.

“What about ‘shut up’ didn’t you get?”

Sam blinked in surprise, startled by Dean’s tone.

“I wasn’t done.” He squared his shoulders as best as he could considering the mile long roll of gauze wrapped and taped around one side. “I kissed you today because _I_ wanted to. _Only_ because I wanted to.” His fingernails were cutting little crescents into his palms, his fists were too tight. “And when you called me, drunk off your ass, a week ago- begging me to talk to you while you jerked off,”

Sam went pale, then bright red, then pale again.

Dean kept talking, because he couldn’t make himself stop even though he knew he should. “I was so hard by the time you came- I,” Dean swallowed, feeling funny at the memory. “You were already asleep by the time I finished. It didn’t have a damn thing to do with what you wanted. I’m a selfish bastard and every time I’ve touched you I did it because I wanted to. Because I thought, fuck the consequences, I want this.”

Sam was breathing funny, eyes wide, a stricken look on his face.

“Back in Tulsa I didn’t say no because I didn’t want you. I said it because- because looking at you, Sammy, all I could see were the mistakes that we were going to make. Because I knew I was going to screw you up if I let it keep going. I’m supposed to keep you safe, not feel you up in a skeezy motel. But just because I knew I shouldn’t doesn’t mean that I didn’t want it. I- I thought I was doing the right thing… and I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” Sam finally found his voice, wrecked thing that it was, looking so very lost. “Dean, I don’t-”

“Damn it, Sam. What about this don’t you understand? What don’t you get? You want me to spell it out, step by step? Because I will. I will lock you in here and explain it all fucking night if that’s what you want me to do.”

Sam was breathing like a wounded animal, uneven, pained noises. “If you’re lying to me because you’re trying to spare my feelings- or if this is some kind of joke...” He was visibly shaking, anger still clear on his face, mingling with the lost look, and something close to fear. “I swear to god, Dean-”

“Sammy,” Dean almost shouted to get his brother’s attention.

Soft huff of breath, nothing to lessen that horrible mix of emotions. “What?”

“Shut up.” He answered simply.

Sam laughed but not like he found anything about this funny.

Dean spoke clear and slowly, because the modulation helped to fight down the panic he felt at using the words. “I’m in love with you, you enormous son of a bitch. Does that clear it up at all?”

They stood in silence, the gentle hum of the heater the only disruption.

Dean felt like one of those old time cartoon characters when they walk off a cliff and only just notice that there is nothing between them and the ground other than a mile of air. If he didn’t look down he wouldn’t fall. Those were the rules. As long as he didn’t flinch he could stay up here.

“Well?” Sam asked after a subjective eternity.

“Well what?” _Don’t make me say it again_ , he thought desperately.

“You gunna kiss me or not?”

“You bit my head off last time I tried.” _Just don’t look down._

“When have you ever done a damn thing I asked you to?”

 _Don’t look down._ “Every day, every time, little brother.”

Sam shook hair from his face, uneven little breaths as he walked around Dean, giving him too much berth before sitting on the foot of the bed.

“I’m going to take it easy on you tonight.” Sam’s voice had suddenly dropped low, finding a whole new destructive range. “Because you’re hurt, I’ll let you be on top.”

The world might have stopped in that instant, because those words were not meant to ever be said between them, everything crashing down and falling apart. Dean had no idea how long he stood there like a complete idiot before one of Sam’s ridiculously long arms let him reach out and grab Dean’s belt loops, drawing him in like the inescapable pull of gravity.

“Last chance.” Sam was looking up at him, so open, so trusting. “You can say no, and I promise I won’t leave this time. We’ll chalk it up to yet another head injury and just pretend it never happened.”

Dean could see it. Sam meant the horrible words he was saying. He really would stay this time. He really would let Dean just take it all back and they could return to the miserable status quo, with all its uncomfortable silences and lack of eye contact until months passed enough to let it heal.

And why the hell would either of them want that?

He caught one hand in Sam’s still wet hair, tangling it around his fingers, his bad shoulder not really getting with the program, not raising up as high, so instead he grab the collar of Sam’s tshirt, dragging him up off the bed enough to meet Dean half way down. And Sam didn’t push him away this time. He did better. He kissed back, and it felt like both a homecoming and damnation.

Dean thought that between the two of them they might have the makings of one half-moral man. Dean suffered his plagues and Sam suffered his own, and neither of them was interested in being healed.

 


End file.
